


Pomegranate Banquet

by ObscuredTempest



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Dissociation, Emetophobia, I dunno if I should even use the ship tag tbh, Mephala's really not much better, Molag Bal is a monster, Rape, attempting to make sense of a sermon, implied Molag Bal, this is meant to be brutal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 12:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16576250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObscuredTempest/pseuds/ObscuredTempest
Summary: A lesson in maces.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An experiment with what we're told concerning Vivec's "wedding" and "pregnancy".  
> The pomegranate was the fruit Persephone ate to trap her in the underworld. 
> 
> It isn't blow-by-blow explicit, but this chapter is flatly rape. Skip to the second chapter if you want to avoid it.

Panic. Pain. His own screams—is that what he hears? He's distantly aware of struggling against hands (too many hands, not mortal, and _gods why do they keep touching him?_ ), being held down and pressed against, and pain. Rancid breath on his throat. Scales? Maybe. He doesn't know. He doesn't belong here, he knows that. Why is this happening? What did he do? He's too-thin and fragile and coming off a high and he's _so tired_ and everything feels like it's fading into nothing.

Distantly aware of pain.

Warmth. Not his, it's from somewhere else. Wet, maybe. It's frigid, here, and he's sure his fingers are turning blue, but he can't see them.

Everything is haze. He _thinks_ he remembers shouting—angry, vicious, rebellious—but he isn't sure. That's how he is, but he can't remember anything right. His throat hurts. Sound is strange, warped and submerged in ink-black. Something echoes around him. Ah. That's a voice. Not his, though. That's the voice of the hands. The voice of pain.

A scream tears from his throat and he barely feels it.

More warmth, more wet, but he thinks he knows where that comes from, this time: from his eyes, and he understands why everything is so dark. He's closed them. Closed out the world around him, pushed it far away, tried to keep as far away as he can, and it's surprisingly easy. Float away. Like his mind is in another place, and it is, in a way. Far, far, so far away, _anywhere but here_.

How long has it been? Who knows. He isn't here. A minute? An hour? A day—several? He isn't here.

But he is. He can't escape forever, and it's a sharp and rude awakening when he's dragged up for air, like his head snaps back onto his body with a jolt of awareness and _everything hurts_. Burning, agonizing pain, and he can't move. Muscles are tight and skin is bruised and he's sure he's bleeding and the panic returns and threatens to smother him and he's left staring up and up and up at

“ _Fuck_ you.” Raw. Hoarse. He's terrified, he hurts, everything feels like needles and scrib jelly and raw, and _gods_ he's bleeding everywhere _from_ everywhere, but still he gathers up what escaped before to drag himself away from the mess he's been left in.

The hands are everywhere, again. One forces his mouth open. He has to fight the urge to vomit.

He bites, instead.

_Everything_ hurts, but he scrambles as far as he can—he _has_ to get away.

The urge wins. There's nothing in his stomach, so it doesn't matter. He keeps moving, tries to keep going through the eye-watering clench of his gut as it tries to purge the intangible. He's cold. Everything is cold, except the itching of dried blood between his thighs.

Gate. His vision swims, but he can see it. He can make it. _Fuck_ Oblivion—fuck _everything in it_.

He looks back. Spits bile and mucous and blood. Stand straight, don't cower, He preys on the weak and _he is not weak_.

He survived.

He _exists_.

He will not break because someone tells him to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love" is many things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The effects of the "banquet", crossing over some with "What My Beloved Taught Me".  
> The pomegranate also symbolizes fertility.

 

He is gravid—or his mind is. He carries something in him, after that. He carries many things. He carries multitudes. Something is off, it's wrong, and he thinks too much. He feels too much. There are cobwebs in his head and he can only see so far past them when they catch the light. It's a spider, now, that creeps along his skin. (But its presence isn't new, only _sharper_.)

He sees a point he can reach for if he cants his head and holds it at just the right angle. A point where he doesn't _need_ to do this again, to feel this again, to be pressed against walls and dirt and the scrape of building exteriors. A point where submission to a mace no longer is the love he has to accept.

(“Love”. He wonders if it's a real word, if it means anything beyond pretty poetry and another means of domination.)

It takes time before it finally happens.

The cobwebs pull against his face and hands as he reaches for shifting black sigils dancing across palms, and his breath is caught, focus somewhere else, and everything comes crashing in as vibrant colours and sounds and pressure and sensation until they mute against his mind, far more dull than they could be. His grip is almost too tight on the strangely uncallused hands of the swordsmer, the believer-captain who he sees as more between a spider's lure and his own desires.

He can make this mer great, a leader, a path to a better life for all of them.

(But that is nothing more than a stepping stone. He takes the sigil with greatest meaning, calls on greatest _power_ in its repetition, and makes of that his name.

 _He_ will wield the mace.)

 


End file.
